Freak
by RenaRoo
Summary: Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me. Sometimes. One-Shot.


Ever have one of those days? Well, I didn't today. I decided to write this anyway. It's been on my mind for a while so I posted it. Usually how it works.

Once again, I'm Turtlefreak121 and this is a random story for you all to add to the list of updates I've been throwing at you all. Hope you still enjoy.

TMNT © Mirage Studios  
story © Turtlefreak121

**Freak**

I pound and pound and pound against the bag but it simply will not _leave_ me. I cannot get away from that gut quenching feeling, that anger tearing in my eyes. I keep everything I can restrained but the punching does not make any of it go away.

Did they think I was not already aware of what I am?

Did they really need to state what was so obvious?

All I need to do is blink and I am back there all over again. It really is so vivid, like an illusion, that I completely relive the moment.

It was not that long ago either.

I spin my weapons as I stare at the punks in the alley. They are not all that pleased by the fact that they were so easily taken down by me. I am nearly half the size of the bigger guy. No doubt they had heard stories of my brothers and me by now.

I wonder why they are so surprised.

These concerns can wait, though. I am too content with standing in front of them, watching them be clouded by my shadow.

I feel good. I feel better.

"One would think," I grin, "that by this point Purple Dragons would have learned that crime doesn't pay. That crime is punished pretty harshly by the city's favorite, shadow-loving, guardian angels." I cock my head to the side. "One would think."

The big guy is down for the count. He just moans and slumps further against the ground.

I either hit him harder than I thought or he's a bigger wimp than I thought he was.

When I am watching the big guy slip into unconscious I slip for a moment and allow the skinny guy to get out of my sights for all but a moment. I quickly catch onto my mistake and just as he is reaching for my face I spin around and thrust my arm back. His nose pops something awful as it meets my elbow.

His hand barely graced my neck. He was going to strangle me?

Fat chance.

He hits the ground like a chunk of lead and looks at me as he scrambles backward, clutching to the broken nose covered in profusely pouring blood. He's staring at me in horror and I am simply grinning like a devil at him.

I feel good. I feel better.

I feel better than him.

"It's-It's not a mask…" he whimpers.

I raise my eye ridge at this announcement.

"It's-it's not a mask, Man! It's not-not a mask!" he continues.

"Was that what you were reaching at me for?" I ask after my epiphany before rubbing my chin line somewhat amusedly. I grin again. "Oh, I coulda spared you a broken nose if you had just asked. No. It's not a mask, genius. I'm all too real."

He makes an animal-like utterance. He sounds like a caged puppy.

"You're…" he whispers, barely loud enough for me to overhear.

"A turtle, I know," I respond snidely. "New to the city? Surely this isn't the strangest thing you've ever seen."

And it comes out of his mouth and it surprises me just as much as it had the first time. I could not brace myself for it, though I knew it was coming. My heart still almost stops as the words leave his thin, pale lips.

"You're a **_freak!_**_"_

I stare at him. This is not supposed to be so surprising, so hurtful.

I have been called that word SO many times in my life that I can hardly count back to the time that I heard the insult first. I am certain, however, that each time has been by someone I could always feel was a bit of – that word – or a moron themselves.

I can always shrug it off if it is someone I know is beneath me. I know that if I was in their shoes I would do so much better with my normal life.

But this is a messed up kid.

I have seen the likes of him before. We rough them up on their first offense and they go back home, straighten up, and do something worthwhile with themselves rather than stick on the streets like some dumb yokes. They will end up fine.

I cannot right say I would do better in his shoes. I am not so much better than him.

He called me that word, I _hate _that word.

"Freak this!" I hiss before delivering a controlled – despite my urging to make it much harder – kick to his neck, knocking him flat out.

He sprawls out and I simply stare at him.

Back in the gym I realize I have stopped my rash beating of the punching bag and I simply stare at it, swinging there back and forth.

I narrow my eyes.

Who cares what they say? People cannot see past their own noses.

I am not a Freak.

…


End file.
